Last Wednesday when I was sitting on the tarmac waiting to take off for my weekend in NYC, I quickly checked Twitter and saw that my friend VodkaMom wasn’t going to be able to go on a blogger tour of The Today Show. I think she got a better offer to go on a blogger tour of a Camden, New Jersey crack house, but I can’t confirm that. (She refuses to tell me where she met her new, interesting friend Count Crackula.)
Anyway, since I was always taught to grab an opportunity when I see one, I immediately sent her a message and asked if it’d be possible for me to take her place on the tour. After all, how fun would it be to walk around that famous NBC studio and see how they produce the show? To see how they report the news? To see the room where the producers go to cry each and every time they have to report on the latest Duggar baby popping out? To even, be still my heart, possibly even smell Willard Scott’s walk-in wig closet? Wouldn’t that be amazing?
Since she’s such a lovely person, VodkaMom quickly replied that of course she’d be happy to send the Today Show people my name and blog address. She seemed sure I’d get in—no problemo. So with that in mind, I then relaxed in my seat and spent the entire flight to New York dreaming of what I’d wear when I met Al Roker. Taffeta? Satin? Crinoline? Latex? “What would Al like best?” I wondered. “What would make him most want to see what’s happening ‘in my neck of the woods’? What would make him have his own personal, ahem, high pressure system?”
A few hours later, I landed at JFK and checked my messages as soon as the flight attendants told us our $99 cell phones no longer posed any danger to the 747’s million dollar flight controls. I was just certain I’d have an email waiting in my inbox from Meredith Viera. Or Matt Lauer. Or, let’s be honest, Lester Holt, who I’ve always suspected as being the weakest link in the Today Show chain since they always make him interview the people who’ve made sex tapes with Screech and have to sit on the couch with a morphine drip and a box of tissues.
But here’s the shocking thing I saw when I looked at my phone: there was no email. No text. No phone call. Not even a frickin’ tweet from Natalie Morales or that other lady who they bring out on holidays when nobody else wants to wake up at 4 a.m. and talk about turkey poisoning with Dr. Nancy Snyderman. WTF?
“What’s going on? Why don’t they want me to visit? What’s WRONG with me?” I wailed on my cab ride into Manhattan. “Is this because I don’t write enough posts about my lady bits? Is it because of the Fanilow crap? Is it because I hurt myself when I cook? Or is it because I look like a young Angela Landsbury and they’re scared I’ll accidentally get on camera during a cooking segment and people will choke on their muffins? What the hell IS IT!?”
“Sheehus, I don’t know, lady,” my cab driver replied, “but stop to touching my neck or I’ll have to charge you the extra.”
And then, after I hopped out of the cab and my suitcase and I stood on the corner of Madison Ave. and 44th looking like the world’s oldest pimp bait, I remembered the post I’d just written about my NYC trip. The post The Today Show people probably found when they clicked on my blog. The post that just so happens to contain this wonderful little nugget:
What if I get arrested for holding up a sign in the The Today Show window that says, “GO F*CK YOURSELF, KATHIE LEE!”
Yep. That’s right. That’s what we in the semi-professional jackass business call, “shooting oneself in one’s own foot.” I’m actually really, really good at it. Been doing it for years.
At least now I know that the next time I plan on going to the big BlogHer convention, I won’t make the same mistake. No, next time I’ll know how to act, how to talk and what to say and do. I’ll know that if I ever want to get invited on a fancy, exclusive blogger tour of The Today Show, I need to make myself seem like a mature person who would never, ever slam a morning personality.
I mean, besides saying, “GO F*CK YOURSELF, STEPHANOPOULOS!”
Because as far as I know, Good Morning America doesn’t even have a tour.